Life and Death in Morocco

Recently I returned to my site to attend the funeral of my old landlord. He was approximately late 50s or early 60s. Habitual smoker. We were neighbours and I saw him everyday. He was like a father to me; telling me what to do and not to do, warning me of walking alone at night, helping me with my butagaz, praising my language and reassuring me that I was adjusting and becoming Moroccan. His close relationship with my host mom also strengthened ties between us. He would often visit her while I was there. We were a close-knit family.
I received a text message first from my former tutor and my landlord’s son that he was in the hospital. We were about to leave for Rabat for our COS conference and Omar and I vowed to visit him if (God forbid) my landlord was still there when I got back. We never got the chance.

He passed away on the way home from the hospital in Ouarzazate. He had been there for 6 days and was released (whatever that means here: additional testing needed, expensive costs for the room and care, fatalistic view towards life and God, etc.) I used to wake up to his persistent coughing every morning. It was horrible. It made my chest hurt. I used to tell him that I hear him coughing and that he needed to stop smoking. He knew. He was addicted.

Unfortunately, the time I spent in my site I was looking forward to and planning my next departure. I was lonely and bored. I had found a number of work contacts and other associations down in my souk town, approximately 45 km away. My village is small, isolated, and was difficult for me to adjust to. First off, I am a foreigner and do not own fields (to attend to daily & harvest), I am a woman (and was not exactly welcome at the association,) and there is no internet connection that far into the mountains. I was cut off and needed work. I visited a number of times with friends and family (hence I gained a solid 20 lbs) where we drank sweet mint tea, ate homemade bread and olive oil, and gossiped. Few, if any of the people in town spoke English, my tutor was in my souk town, and the association was satisfied without me involved. My language was stagnant and I was teetering on an isolation-induced depression. I had a hard time sprinkled with a few bright patches that first year.

I found my saving grace at the Café Atlas in Boumalne on March 24, 2010. Saying my usual hellos to a group of acquaintances, a young man named Omar working at the cafe noticed me. His hazel eyes lit up when he heard me speaking Tashelheit. He asked me if we could speak English together. Wouldn’t I like to come sit and have some coffee? Unfortunately for him, a number of like-minded individuals had presented similar offers to me in the past and had ruined this genuine invitation for me. I had heard it all before! An exchange of languages: English for Berber and then inevitably an invitation back to his place or mine, or hey! Let’s just get married! I was wary of him but was curious. His English was good and when he looked at me, he looked through me. I was caught.

We arranged to meet the following Friday when I would be in town next (already planning ahead!). I blew him off. Due to some external forces (namely a mischievous girl from my village who lied to the family and hitchhiked a ride down to Boumalne with me and then preceded to turn herself into a sad puppy and followed me about my day while I ran errands to the bank, post office, and marche,) I left town early and missed our scheduled time to meet. I felt bad but really had my hands tied with Ms. Crazy Hormones Let’s Strut Up and Down Boumalne So I Can Have Every Creepo Goggling Me. I knew where to find him and made up my mind to come back as soon as I was back in town. I even made a list of English words we could discuss. This new personality left a lasting impression.

The next time we met, we hit it off. He was fascinated with me and me with him. We quickly became great friends and I was introduced to his family (all of them). The relationship we had enabled me to get to know and understand Amazigh culture and life. He was my guide and teacher. I came out of my sadness into a happier, healthier life and was me again.

Back in my site, I felt as if I hadn’t ever left. Things had not changed (I am beginning to notice this recurrent theme: I leave and come into my own, a metamorphosis if you will, and find those left behind are the same, neither good nor bad just an observance..). Just this time, everyone was in mourning. When I entered into the living room and was passing to each woman, saying my condolences it wasn’t until I had her hand in mine that I noticed whose it was. She had disappeared into a cloud of white blankets, shawls, and head wraps. She was smaller than I remembered. This was my landlord’s wife. I immediately broke down and started crying. This poor, little woman with a truckload of kids, poor hearing and bad respiratory problems was now widowed. Sitting beside her was Aisha, my landlord’s sister. Memories came flooding back to me then. I remembered all the times I had come by the house. My landlord was either there or just around the corner. The tears came swiftly and I am neither graceful nor clean when I cry. My big eyes swell up, my nose starts running and I try to stifle big sobs that escape through from time to time. I sat down next to the women where they consoled me. They told me that God wanted Lahou and it was his time to go. They said again and again that I was family and I was a daughter to Lahou. Every time a new family member came into the room my eyes started welling up, the memories came flooding back again and this new heart of mine, full of empathy, gushes forth inside my chest (just try watching the news with me sometime…)

I stayed through the evening and visited with a number of families. It was a nice visit despite the circumstances and I got to play with my girls (Sarah, Mariam, and Milu) at my host family’s house. I miss them a lot. I had some time to reflect and contemplate about my life and the lives around me. People say that this life is short and whether or not you believe in an afterlife, you should never take for granted the friends, family, health, weather, sunsets, stars, laughs, cries, and the list goes on. I guess I am trying to bring things full circle. My landlord's death caused this period of reflection and moment of gratitude. I thought back to my own family and how much they have loved and supported me. I thought back to Omar, my sunshine. I have found someone who despite our difference in cultures, languages, religion, etc., we have found something true, genuine and special within each other. Every day there is something new.

All my good energy and light,
H